The Writing Prompt Boot Camp

2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 5

For today’s prompt, write a poem about something before your time. Maybe it’s a certain time in history. Or a type of music. Or a story that was shared by friends or family–before your time.

Here’s my attempt:

“A Stroll Through Oakland Cemetery”

Each mausoleum and tombstone
hides away countless stories. From
Margaret Mitchell’s epic love
story to the master golfer
Bobby Jones, this one cemetery
holds its share of celebritites,
but also the first Atlanta
mayor, Moses Formwalt, who served
one year before he then became
a deputy–only to get
killed while he was transporting
a prisoner, or poor Agnes
Wooding, who was buried right here
before the land was sold by her
husband, A.W., to the city.

Jean, Marie, Pierre with other pre teens,
not yet old enough
to go on the hunt,
were instructed to guard the cave
and gather some fruit, herbs,twigs and branches
and offer prayers for a feast.

When they arrived back
rain was dripping down
They decided to start a fire
for heat and light.

Before starting the fire,
Pierre took some of the blackened
charcoal out of the pile
looked at the other two
“We may not be able to hunt,
but we can practice by drawing
animals on the wall and throw
our spears at them.”

Each took a piece of charcoal
and drew their favorite food on the wall.
They practiced aiming at the heart
as they hurled their spears.

When the hunters returned
they had had the best hunt
that any of them could remember.
Finding the drawings on the wall,
the leader decided
the spirits of the animals
were trapped in the cave
and resulted in their easy conquest.

My father’s grandmother on his mother’s side
was born in 1841, one hundred years before
her great-granddaughter Marian was in 1941.
One hundred years made all the difference
in our lives. Mary Ann was American born,
descended from Viking invaders, founders
of the City of Cork assimilated into Ireland
long before James Thomas Cotter emigrated
in the early 1800’s to America’s New World,
thus escaping the Great Famine yet to come.

In her mid-teens Mary Ann met Mr. Tuohy
better known as Will who’d fled the Famine
with his mother Julia Darcy Tuohy in tow.
We guess his father John had already died.
James Cotter and Will Tuohy both worked
for the railroad, crisscrossing the Midwest,
thus intersected their lives. Will, courting
Mary Ann, took her in his arms and danced
her round campfires at dusty railroad sites,
fiddles scraping, stars winking in the smoke.

Like Mary Ann, Marian was married young.
A century apart, each soon had a child, each
birthed five children, each lost one. There
the likeness stops. Marian lost her first child
Mary Ann, her last, and no one could staunch
the hemorrhaging blood, her body exhausted
by five births in five years, her own life done.
One hundred seventy-one years have gone.
If 2041 sees Marian’s great-granddaughter
born, how will their lives be alike or diverge?

Mr. Hughes, or may I call you Howard?
I’m sure we know each other well enough, living
in the same disturbance as we do, albeit
at opposite ends of the century. Me, obsessive, you
compulsive, and also the other way round.

We’re grifters, you and me
flashing a series of parlour tricks, one furitive tic
and then another. Artists of escape, slipping
out of handshakes, turns of doorknobs, disappearing
into the safe small sterility of hotel rooms
and other dark shiny places. Even there our most delicious
cravings are coated in terror that drops
into our laps in the quiet late at night. Infected?
Syphilitic movie starlets? MERSA creeping hot and silent
Into the divots of another gouged scab?

We hold the world together with cellophane tape
and a ton of excuses. It’s a nonstop sideshow
trick, pulling a neverending rope, hand over hand,
even as the fibers fray apart. Knotting faster than the human eye
can see the imperfect spaces that terrify me, the same as you.
Our fears crossing over through time.

Two old souls found each other
within the crowd of faceless faces
and nameless names. With one look,
one smile, one small word,
our lives seamlessly became one —
until it wasn’t.

There was no denying the attraction,
the unspoken understanding
in each moment we shared the same breath.
I wish I’d known my own heart better, held
yours tighter as it beat against mine —
until it didn’t.

The shocking truth of life’s fragileness
still haunts me, shakes me to the core,
wakes me from comfortable slumber
to remind me that we had all the time
in the world —
until we didn’t.

With no chance to properly say
goodbye, with so many other things
left unsaid, I chase your ghost, let
your presence comfort me, hold on
to memories I can’t release —
until I can.

Before us was them.
Those renegades,
rising up from cruel oppression,
placing fingers on strings,
voices cocked,
gripping tightly onto the sound that
changed the world forever.
Existing somewhere between rhythm and blues
the antidote burned.
Poison poised outside the speakeasy,
anathema brewing inside.
They drank of the draught,
its inocculation
savagely speeding its sanguine cleanse.
Jump, jive, and wail if you have a soul.
If not, do it anyway.
Big suits,
big hats,
big band,
big business.
Are you ready?
It’s time to dip, baby.

They left the coffee-rich blue mountains
to meet on a straw seated subway train
They talked gentle politics, business,
Roosevelt was wonderful
and by Garvey they’d remain
proud of a place they never knew

He would fly back over the sea he had sailed
from a place with no electricity
but the coconut polished floors gleamed
wide verandas opened to the valley
where colonial castes prevailed
chains he loosened and shook free
left that warm island, unbound in New York City
claiming a new destiny a new history

He understood cricket but loved
Democratic baseball, his easter island head
in overstuffed chair, fragrant, listening to the radio
play by play, talking about Jackie Robinson,
Hank Aaron, those sacred Sundays in Jamaica, Queens

They were happy
Young
And carefree
Long haired
And wild
Rambunctious
And partying
The epitome of cool.
They wrote songs
Around fires
Smoked
Whatever they wanted
Drank just as much too.
Tiny waists
Cinched and buttoned
With patterns flowing free.
They were young
Carefree
And wild
They danced
And lazed in the sun
They worked hard
And played even harder.

It was ordinary rope
the type used to bind parcels to carts,
or carts to horses.
You thought nothing of it,
I am sure, when you left
your crooked house
down the steep wending steps
through the iris and gladiola,
to the dirt street and Sir’s house
to mop his floors, polish
silver that saw you
reflected, blond and worn.

When you left,
I am sure, you thought nothing
of the rope on the basement stoop
or your son in his room
coughing red streaks
on his hand, his shirt,
his wall, the floor, not yet a man
but more than a boy.

I am sure, when you left,
You thought nothing
of your husband sawing logs,
sweat staining the once-white
shirt, the rasping making music
with the chortle of finches.
Perhaps you smiled,
Happy to soon have shelves
promised last week, not knowing
he took the coffee you made
before you left
with sips from the bottle squirreled
in the dank corner where you
kept your canning jars
and spiders kept their eggs.

You thought nothing of the rope,
nor of the solid oaken beam
transecting the basement ceiling,
I am sure, and neither did he,
but perhaps he thought of it
only after he found the pistol
too poor for bullets,
and in the heat of morning sunshine
and liquor, perhaps he heard
your son rasping,
perhaps he saw the rope,
and thought something of it.

***
Better late than never. Wrote the poem but alas, no internet access until now. This poem relates the suicide of my great-grandfather, an immigrant from Finland, a man I never met but whose wife, my Mumu, kept me close. Peace…

In a time long forgotten
At least I would like to believe
There was beauty and magic
And they were more than make-believe
Elves and fairy, troll and sprite
Roamed the hills morning and night
In a time long forgotten
Long before I was born
There were beings of power
From which legends were born
In a time long forgotten
A time long before me
In a land far away
Beyond the bright shining sea.

Would I have been there,
Had I been there,
In the garden?
Would I have opened
My aching eyes
Before the first light dawned
In the hopeless sky?
Would I have sought
The agony and solace
Of that place,
Wishing for rock
To shatter like my heart?
Would there have been
A sliver of hopeful memory
Urging me towards that tomb?
Or would I have
Still been sleeping
Only to awake too late
And too confused?

and their calls continued fainter when the light
inside went completely. Alice has her history of
competitive play. The youngest sibling by eight
years, she was home while the rest were at school,
in her dad’s hair while he worked in the tool shop
and in her mother’s while she cooked and canned.
Her mom called a game of hide and seek, counted
loud to a hundred by fives and forget about her
five-year old, figuring Alice had found something
more fun to do after ten minutes. But fifteen ‘til
dinnertime, one child did not answer the order
to wash up for table. This was before abductions
infested front pages, but it was no less a panic.
They ran calling through the house and all around
it. Her oldest brother, who could drive now, took
the car. They made phone calls and the police came.
Inside one of the empty rain barrels, under the lid
she had pulled over herself, Alice discovered she
could laugh and weep at the same time, and both
while completely silent. She was cold, cramped,
terrified and unassailably, gold-medal victorious,
which is why I hesitate whenever I notice she’s
made a pot of tea and taken out the Scrabble board.

Turquoise, gold
and silver are gone from
the tombs. Carved slabs
of the sacrificed
and masks of the dead
are in the museum.
We climb narrow steps
to the top of the temple
and walk across
the dirt plaza,
where thousands gathered,
fought and feasted.
All is silent, except
for an old man
calling out to tourists
to buy souvenir rocks.
In the distance,
other mountains are far off
and the highways
and city are not visible
The sky is pale and hot.
There’s no wind.
So we find the canopy
of a very old tree,
climb into the shade
and listen to leaves, rustling.

And she shrieks.
The Spring Equinox begins, and the sunlight shafts through the main doorway
As she begins her dance of 3600 years ago.
The tethered bull quakes, for it has smelled death.
Her steps are light and her long, dark, Mediterranean hair flows
Rhythmically to the music
And the chants
Sinuously and sensuously she moves with the grace of a lifetime of service
In homage to the Fat Lady goddess.
Of Malta, the Island…
The omphalos of the World.
She weaves in and out of the coralline limestone post-and-lintel constructions,
Oblivious, to everything but the rhythm
Of her own movements, mirroring those of the branches.
To the beat of the lambskin drums
And jarring rattle of hog-bone shakers.
The wind howls.
The priest raises the knife;
The animal’s life blood spurts
And the dancer sinks to the ground,
Exhausted.

Plumeria falls on soft grass like dreams that keep coming.
The wall wheezes with her asthma, the plaster falls away
like rain of stone dust, and his eyelashes gently dip down
with pain as she rasps for breath, wrenches fist of space in lungs
as plumeria falls soft on grass and dreams keep coming
of her pale skin flushed like the fine watermarks on marble.
He holds her gaze, draws her to the portico of sun shine,
slats of stained glass break into splinters of rainbow on her:
the blood drains from her face and lips turn blue. Blurry eyed he
sees plumeria fall on grass, dreams of her coming back.

I think she wept, yes she must have
Wept when it all fell apart
A beautiful queen a lovely queen
But she could not act like a queen
She ruled a land where only rulers were men
Beautiful visage she wore the crown and the beard
Seductively gifted she play grown men games
See from the distance the threat that comes
Her defense was as a woman not
Anything coming from a kingly man
Seduction was a tool
Femininity the secret play
She work the levels of power
Made grown play the games she dictated
But all most fall
And nothing, even empires, deny final decay
Even passion turns sour
When kingdoms are the commodities traded
I know she wept at the realization
That this too will pass
The golden becomes tarnished
The great fall beneath the wicked lash
But glory will never crumble
From forces coming in
She whispered to the wind
On this last breathe
I am the greatest of all queens

This morning I was unable to leave comments, (the screen kept telling me I was posting comments too fast and should slow down) so I’m doing a joint accolade here: I especially love the family stories of justLynne,Connie Peters,Jannilee (ah! your compassion!), ceeess, Janet Rice Carnahan, Walt Wojtanik, Jane Shlensky, zevd2001. And then there were the others – Jerry Walraven’s “Moanin'”, Imaginalchemy’s “Thoughts from the Dodo bird” and “The Invention of Time”, Linda Voit’s “Before my big entrance” and the conversation between De Jackson (Of Parks & Buses) and Marie Elena (Two Navy gentlemen). Every one of these poems touched me, moved me, and sometimes amused me. So thank you to this wonderful group of word-crafters for giving me such a gift to start the day. 🙂

Grandma had a routine
when she visited her
husband’s grave
She stopped at
two small graves
on the other side
of this pocket sized
cemetery overwhelmed
by Brooklyn streets and
the sound of the el
She strolled over and
stood in front of these
tiny markers while she
and my mother recited
once again the same
story of how beautiful
they were and how
fast they went as the
epidemic claimed mostly
the young and left a hole
in the family and sorrow
still in the hearts of their
mother and sister over fifty years
later and I watched each
shed tears dripping on
the soil as both of them
found the tiniest pebble
to place on the top of
the stones.

Uriah, son of Heth, why won’t he go in to his wife?
Damn him! I have called him home from Rabbah,
from harshest battle, to give him this, his own lily
among the thorns, the choicest fruit, the rose of Sharon
within his own garden. And he says no? Uriah must
serve the King always, here in the castle, he says.
His men are at siege against the Ammonites, he says,
and he will not disrespect their faith, their sacrifice.
He will not disrespect me, my service, he says.
What of his oath to defend my crown, God’s city?
What of that, upright Uriah? Go to her! Her breasts
are two baby deer fed on flowers, her eyes are purest
white of doves, her temple a split pomegranate
amid her sweet curls. Even the King could not resist
her myriad charms, though try he did. O yes, try
he did. Well, then, Uriah, back to the battle you go.
A letter will you carry, giving your general Joab
my orders, the King’s desire. Uriah, I offer you
the chance in the thickest of the fight to prove
your fealty to me, your master, your true King.
O brother, yes, you will fight, and you will be
lauded forevermore as the brave, loyal lieutenant
who laid down his life for the Kingdom of Israel
and Judah. Yes, let it be so. I wash my hands of it.
The Lord speaks . . . I merely pass on His word.
I am Moses . . . I merely bring down the stones.
Yes, Uriah shall go to the stones. And Bathsheba,
abandoned by her Hittite, like so much spoiled milk
dashed to the dirt, she shall bear Kings. Kings, I say.
Kings of Kings. Yes. Yes. It is the will of the Lord.

and somebody, in my imagination a farmer, bearded,
splashed a blessing of moonshine on the salty soil
one morning and broke ground on the main house
where over the years a chicken farm grew, gripping
the foothills within sniffing distance of the broad bay.
Eggs, fryers, stewers, fighting cocks and breeders—
but mostly eggs—plus a vegetable garden—came up
at the time our neighbor Kato’s grandpa was just being
born in the city, which would have taken our farmer
two days to reach by horse and buggy, before bridges,
riding the long way ‘round south then north again—
and what a glorious passage through the womanly
hills oscillating green and brown, and between her
hip curves, the glint of Poseidon’s gates, and at last
fetching the bustling four-story city with its balconies
and dust and everything commercial—and, of course,
its endless hunger for eggs—but no tomatoes. Our
farmer sells the eggs, takes on his weekend delights
and makes the return trip back to the farm, with its
endless tide of scratching feet, pecking beaks, and
pooping and pooping—and that’s why, Mrs. Krause
we have beefsteaks and cherries, romas and brandy-
wines, red and running wet as drunkards’ noses while
just down the street, you and the mister get no luck
with your tomatoes.

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